


Soviet Flight

by Ser_Charlemagne



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 06:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18089120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Charlemagne/pseuds/Ser_Charlemagne
Summary: The year is 1930. A young woman from Paris living in London has been living quietly on her own, until an unexpected visitor brings dire news from the East.A multi-chapter fic centering on the events after the musical, and the consequences of choices of made.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 03/15/2019: After considering the progression of this story, I decided to alter a great deal of it. This is a new, updated version of the Prologue, with notable changes. What happened to Dmitry, for example!
> 
> You'll find out!

** London, England – October, 1930 **

An unassuming French woman lived in a flat on the third floor. 

She had moved there late in 1929, fresh from Paris and eager to start a new life. Though she spoke little English, her neighbors had found her to be friendly and charming, though she kept mostly to herself. Her daily routine rarely varied from the norm – she rose at 5:30 every morning, and ate a small breakfast; she didn’t enjoy tea, so hot water with a twist of lemon suited her just fine. She would dress, and pick up a morning copy of the Times before making her way to the school where she offered French lessons. A quick lunch in a café while she read the paper, and in the evening, she would walk home, stopping in Hyde Park to read for a short time. No gentlemen ever came to call, and she seemed rather content with that fact. 

She had introduced herself as Anya, and life had carried on. For her part, she was grateful for that. The secrets she had carried with her from Paris were dangerous, and those she loved had already suffered enough. 

The reality of the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov had proven too deadly to continue on.

This particular morning in October had started as any others had. She had risen early, and gone about her morning routine. By the time Anya had set out for the school where she had tutored, people were already out and about on the streets, going about their business. True to form, it was raining a little, but after living a life on the streets for the better part of ten years, it had stopped bothering her. Dressed neatly in a stylish two piece business dress, she had pinned up her long strawberry blonde hair under a hat, and made her way through the streets. The sounds of life in the city were comforting, but a part of her would always miss the streets of her St. Petersburg – even when she had no memory of her identity, it had been home, a mother and father to her when she had no one else. Other cities simply would never be the same. 

It was when she paused to purchase her newspaper that she noticed him for the first time.

It was a fleeting glance – out of the corner of her eye, a tall man in a dark coat, hat pulled low over his features. Nothing that would have normally been out of the ordinary, except that, for the barest of seconds, she was certain she had seen him watching her. She turned her head sharply, blue eyes bright and wary, but in the fraction of a second, he had vanished. An uneasy feeling settled in her middle, memories of the last time this had happened, but she reminded herself that it was a large city with a lot of people. He could have simply thought she was pleasant to look at.

Her lessons went as expected; she had chosen French because she knew it well, and because her native Russian would have been a dead giveaway. The British were not as kind towards Russians, all things considered. Her students came for their lessons, and for the most part, she had been able to forget about the man. While she knew she had to be aware, Anya refused to live in abject fear from every little strange thing that unsettled her. The Bolsheviks had won once; she refused to let them win again by hunkering down and allowing their terror.  
It was while she was eating lunch at the café that she saw him again. 

Through the glass, over the edge of her newspaper – a large produce truck had been parked across the way to unload its wares. When it pulled away, he was there, ducking into a small shop across the way. He spared her a glance – she could just make out a pair of intense eyes making direct eye contact with her before he slipped inside. Immediately, her heart went into her throat. Once was easily dismissed as coincidence, but twice…

Anya found herself wholly unable to complete her meal after that. Her nerves knotted up in her middle, memories of the last time this had happened - 

No. She had made a vow to continue living, and she’d be damned if she came up now. 

Her afternoon had remained quiet, but she had thankfully remained with her students until it was time to go. She collected her wages, and began to make her way home. The day had turned dreary, but the rain had subsided for the moment as the sky began to darken. Normally, she would have taken a detour through Hyde Park on her way home, simply to enjoy the greenery, but her close encounters with the strange man had left her unsettled. 

The evening was still, otherwise, the distant hush of water and pavement as cabs passed through the area. The gaslights had been lit along the street, casting a yellowish glow through the misty gloom. Umbrella in hand, she had crossed the street and was making her way down the street to her apartment building when she saw him again. 

In the gloom, a half block in front her, she could barely make out any features as the gaslights cast harsh shadows. He had turned the corner, his heavy coat buttoned, a hat drawn low over his face. He strode towards her with a purpose, gradually picking up the pace, and Anya realized with a sick twist in her stomach that there was no way to avoid him. Were she to turn and run, he could have easily overtaken her, and there were no escape routes between the apartment building on one side and the fence along the park to the other. Her heart began to hammer, and she gripped the umbrella. If he was there to kill her, she wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction of making it easy.

“Who are you!” she shouted at him as she brought her umbrella up in her hands like a bat, prepared to take aim. “Why are you following me!” They were demands, not questions, but he was not listening. He drew closer with each step, and broke into a run abruptly. Breathing hard, she squared her feet, prepared to swing - 

“Get down!”

The command was in Russian, and a strong hand pushed her to the side. Bewildered, Anya stumbled against the brownstone wall in surprise, her hat knocked from her head and umbrella from her hand. Turning her head sharply, she took in a sharp breath as she watched the stranger plow into a man who had come out from the park behind her. A shot rang out in the night, eliciting a sudden scream from her as she fell to her knees. Overhead, the bullet ricocheted from the brick work; she could feel the dust against her skin from where it had struck. Staring at the scuffle for a half second, shock began to steadily be replaced with anger, and she reached for her umbrella. The man who had shoved her aside had the other pinned to the ground, and she could see them struggling over the gun, could see the stranger drawing back and driving a gloved first into the other’s jaw. Breathless, Anya hurried unsteadily to her feet, just as another shot ran out. She jerked to the side, but the bullet had gone astray into the building again. Furious, her demand for answers grew, and she began to approach the two men, umbrella raised like a staff at her defense. 

Blood from the other man’s injured face spattered the damp pavement as she approached, jaw set. The struggle continued for a moment, until suddenly, the gun was knocked clear. It skidded towards her, and she cringed, kicking it aside. As much as she knew it would have benefited her to pick it up, she detested guns and wanted nothing more to do with them. 

There was a sudden snap, and Anya turned her head back just in time to see the stranger reach around and grab the back of the other’s head. He pulled back hard, and twisted abruptly. The man immediately went lax, and the sound of the struggle subsided. Aside from the distant sounds of the city, all went silent – though a crowd was beginning to gather. Still shaking, grimacing, she approached the stranger as he rose, suddenly unsteady on his feet. 

“Who are you,” she hissed, this time in heated Russian. She brandished the umbrella, undeterred by the fact that this man had just killed someone in front of her. For all she knew, she would be next – were there multiple people out there competing for her blood? It was a horrifying and morbid thought. 

There was silence for a moment, before the stranger, breathless, looked over his shoulder at her. He tilted his hat back, and for the first time, she got a look at his eyes. Intense, dark – she knew those eyes. She knew - 

“I came to warn you,” he said quietly, a hand going to his arm. “…I was almost too late.”

Anya felt her entire body tense for a moment, before she rushed forward. She reached up and grasped the stranger’s shoulder, and turned him towards her abruptly, determined to know if she was correct. Her eyes went wide; could it be? She was so certain that he would have been executed when he returned, after what he had done. 

_“Gleb?”_


	2. Chapter One

_I mean you no harm, Gleb._

_All you had to do was follow orders like a good son._

_…Was not my father’s son…_

_…Sentenced to twenty-five years corrective labor…_

The weight of shackles. The darkness of the boxcar, bodies crowded around him. The smell of fear, shivering and gnawing. The glare of eyes upon him – they know who you are. The one responsible for the murder of their families, whether you pulled the trigger or not. Poetic justice for the likes of him. The accusing stares, the shame of a father, pale and raw. A flash of red – a flag? A dress?

Blood.

_We both know it’s not a game, Gleb._

_What will you tell them?_

He turned his head, away from the accusing eyes of the walking dead crowded into the boxcar. A father’s shame rose within him – shame? He had done the right thing; he had conviction that sparing her life had been necessary. But there was no escape – he turned his head and saw her there, resplendent in red, eyes brilliant and staring him down. _Your eyes. A man could lose himself in them._

_What will you tell them?_

_There is no Anastasia – ___

_The three members of the NKVD Troika loomed opposite her, the chamber where his sentence for treason filling the void. He knew this chamber; how many people had he ordered executed or imprisoned here…_

_…Actively conspired with the Grand Duchess Anastasia Romanov, disobeyed orders –_

_…She was a dream..._

_…An enemy of the people, a traitor to the State…_

_…The New Order has no place for fairy tales…_

_You will be stripped of all rank and title, and sentenced…_

There was the gentlest of touches on his neck, the soft white satin of a glove against his fevered skin. Gleb jerked slightly – human contact only meant pain, a fight over food or resources or for sheer pleasure of the guards. Laid out on the rigid wooden board in his cell, freezing, grimacing against the abuse that was sure to follow - 

_I mean you no harm, Gleb._

__Warmth flooded his veins, so much so that he took a breath. The darkness lingered within the cell, but the sounds had shifted. There was near silence, punctuated by the sound of a radio playing soft music. The sound of light rain over that, the movement of fabric – the smell of tea and perfume. The touch on the back of his neck shifted to one on his brow. Gleb took a breath, and then another._ _

_London._

__He was becoming aware of the pain in his knuckles, the lingering gnawing in his middle from hunger, as awareness took him. He remembered killing the would be assassin, rising to his feet, a firm, elegant hand grabbing him by the shoulder. Eyes staring at him, shrouded in darkness, but shocked, and so very blue. She had said his name – and after that, he remembered only vaguely being brought up a few flights of stairs, dazed and confused. Had the police come?  
He opened his eyes, and his vision came slowly into focus. He grimaced, turning his head away slightly from the low lamplight. It was dark out, but he could make out some of the room he was in. Neat, clean – he was laying on a sofa of some sort, his coat gone, a blanket draped over him. There was a smell of food being prepared in another room…_ _

__“…Oh, thank goodness.”_ _

__Gleb lifted his head, and found himself staring at a vision._ _

__She wore the same concern on her face that she’d had when they had last parted ways, but no longer was Anya dressed like a Grand Duchess. She was still dressed in the clothing she’d been wearing when he had shoved past her, her hair still undone from the scuffle. She stood by his side, a hand on his brow – he had to smile._ _

__Her hand was trembling._ _

__“…Anastasia –“_ _

__“Shh. Just Anya,” she said in hushed tones, and knelt beside him. Her eyes were intense, but kind. “After you nearly collapsed, one of my neighbors brought you up here to my flat. You look like you haven’t eaten properly in weeks, Gleb…” Anya frowned, concerned. “…Why are you here? What did you mean, you had to warn me? I thought for certain that they have executed you if they discovered what you had done for me. Here. Eat this.”_ _

__In her other hand, Anya held out a tray with some food, and a hot cup of tea. It was difficult for him to hold back his surprise – at her kindness, and at the offering. After months of nothing but thin soup on the edge of starvation, he really couldn’t turn her down. Thanking her quietly, he began to eat, mulling over her questions. He desperately wanted to be certain that her flat was secure, but he was exhausted and starved._ _

__“…It doesn’t matter right now…” Gleb chose to spare her the gruesome details of his struggle and flight for now; it was not nearly so important. “I began to hear rumors about a year after I’d returned to Leningrad - that you’d been found, that they were dispatching someone else to finish the job my father and I could not. It…wasn’t easy, but I managed an escape and tracked you down. Popov informed me that you were in London…convincing him I wanted to help you was not easy; they almost had me arrested on the spot.”_ _

__A wistful smile played on Anya’s lips, and she reached over to turn on the lamp on the side table. The flat was filled with a low glow, and now, he could see her much better. She hadn’t been this close to him since their parting; the warmth of her hand lingering in his own, the concern in those eyes fueling his conviction as he had spun his story._ _

__“That does sound like Vlad and Lily. You…I saw you today. It was you, wasn’t it? Trailing me today, while I went about my business?”_ _

__Gleb nodded, still taking in the food she had offered him. He had expected questions, if he managed to survive the encounter, and thankfully, he was too exhausted to be completely flummoxed by her presence._ _

__“Yes,” he said, and took a sip of the tea she had made him. It was warm and comforting, and she’d even provided the lemons. How long had it been since he had been able to enjoy something as simple as this? “I didn’t know where he would decide to act, or how long he would take. I didn’t even know directly who it would be. So I trailed you...I’m, er.” Gleb paused, the teacup paused at his lips. “I’m sorry.”_ _

__“You’re terrible – you scared me half to death.” But there was no scolding in her tone; there was hardly any joking either. The sobering fact that she had nearly been killed weighed on both of them. Still, Gleb had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. He cleared his throat._ _

__“I didn’t want – I didn’t know when he would - I was trying to –“ Gleb frowned and closed his eyes; he could feel the vaguely unimpressed look on her face. He hadn’t even been planning on being seen! His hope was that he could not interfere with her life more than he already had, and just handle this situation from afar._ _

__“Gleb Vaganov, were you using me as bait?”_ _

“What – _no.”_

_Confound this woman and her ability to throw me off!_

__“I was hoping that I could handle this from a distance and not disrupt your life _at all_ ,” he managed, feeling rather dour about all of this. He knew that there was no way that Anya would have wanted to see him again, after everything that had happened, and he had been fine with that. He hadn’t any illusions of heroism or anything of the sort – he’d felt compelled, driven – a desire to ensure she survived._ _

__“…To come all this way, and not even say hello? Gleb, where are your good Russian manners?”_ _

__Gleb took a breath and finally opened his eyes to look at her directly. Anya might have looked unimpressed, but she didn’t look displeased. The banter had served to offer up some much needed levity between them, and he could feel himself relaxing just a little. She reached over, and squeezed his shoulder._ _

__“Well.” Anya accepted the empty plate, and rose to her feet. “…Rest. You’ve stopped him, and he won’t be reporting back to his superiors any time soon. We can talk more in the morning. Yes, I’ve locked the windows and the doors – “_ _

__Gleb closed his mouth, as he had been about to speak. How had she known?_ _

__“…And Gleb?”_ _

__He relaxed back against the sofa, rather in awe as Anya paused in the doorway. Her back was to him, the tray in her hands, but for a moment, he saw the flicker of something that very much looked like pain pass over her features. She swallowed. There was a story there, one he had not privy to._ _

__“…Thank you. I’m…very glad to know you’re still alive.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Please note: I do not know how Troika proceedings in this time went, so I kept it vague.


End file.
